


In Warm Water Swimming Down

by DreamingPagan



Category: October Daye Series - Seanan McGuire
Genre: A Killing Frost spoilers - Freeform, Bonding moment between Dianda and Simon, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Minor pining, Simon's trauma makes an appearance briefly, not using the archive warning because it's barely mentioned and not graphic in any way, post-A Killing Frost, surprisingly Dianda is present and punches no one, they deserve nice things, very brief allusion to sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: Dianda and Simon have a lot to learn about each other now that Simon has come home at last.
Relationships: Dianda Lorden/Patrick Lorden/Simon Torquill, Dianda Lorden/Simon Torquill
Comments: 21
Kudos: 46





	In Warm Water Swimming Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greywardenblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywardenblue/gifts).



“Would you like a massage?” 

Simon Torquill looked, Dianda thought, perfectly terrible.

Perfect, in the respect that he was Daoine Sidhe, and a Torquill, and therefore beautiful in every respect. Perfect in that his red hair looked soft and he was tall and well-formed, and terrible in that - 

Well.

It had been less than half an hour since they’d brought him to the palace in Saltmist, and it was difficult not to notice the ways in which Simon looked terrible. Not when Dianda remembered Simon as he had been, back when they had first met. The frayed clothing alone would have been enough, but his pallor - his _demeanor -_

He looked wary, and exhausted. His face was haggard, and his hair lacked the sheen it should have had, and his hands shook almost imperceptibly and it was all the fault of _that woman_. If she ever got the chance, Dianda was going to punch Eira Rosynhwyr so hard Titania would feel it, but that did not solve her problem right now. The problem was that Dianda was not entirely certain how to help.

She had not known Simon for long. She knew that. They’d met for perhaps the first time over a hundred years ago, but in that time, there had been so little time to simply talk with him. There had been the near-disaster of her betrothal celebration and then the ensuing fright that had followed Patrick’s “chat” with the frigid bitch who’d attempted to brainwash him and then - 

And then Simon had disappeared into the clutches of that same nightmare, and if Dianda remembered the silver-tongued charmer that Simon had been before, the man standing before her now bore little resemblance to the one who had single-handedly saved her marriage and, in many ways, her life. Or perhaps - perhaps it was only that he bore the marks of suffering now, she thought privately. Those marks did not suit him, not in the slightest, and she ached to wipe away at least some of the pain she could read in the set of his shoulders.

“I beg your pardon?” Simon asked, looking at her like he’d forgotten what gentle touch was, and she gestured.

“Your back. I can tell it pains you. You haven’t been sleeping in a bed, have you? I could give you a massage and then if you’d like to eat -”

“And sleep,” Patrick interjected. “You need rest, Simon, on something that’s meant to be slept on. I’d say you need a bath but we’ve just drug you through several miles of ocean, so I daresay that can wait, although I’d at least have a rinse if I were you. Salt dries in odd places.” 

“And sleep,” Dianda agrees. “I’ve given Helmi orders about the food and preparing your room and ours. You’re welcome in either, but you won’t sleep well if you’re in pain. We have healers who could help, but I doubt somehow that you would be comfortable having foreign magic worked on you just now, and I can’t say I like the idea either.”

Alarm flashed across Simon’s narrow face.

“No,” he agreed. “No, I wouldn’t like that. I - that is -”

How many times, Dianda wondered, had Eira hurt him for refusing her? 

“You can say no,” she reassured him quietly. “No one is ever going to touch you against your will again, including me.” 

She tried very, very hard not to wince at the sudden flood of relief in Simon’s eyes or the way he allowed his hands to uncurl. She had been guessing but that - 

That spoke volumes in and of itself. She was not just going to punch Eira - she was going to _kill her_. She took a deep breath. Her anger was not going to help Simon. It could wait, even if not for long.

“I wouldn’t refuse, though, if it were me,” Patrick interjected. Simon looked to him, questioning. “She has wonderfully strong hands,” Patrick explained. 

Simon looked to Dianda’s webbed hands. He looked to Patrick - and then, slowly, as if remembering how, he gave him a quicksilver grin.

“Strong as yours, do you mean?” he asked, and Patrick beamed.

“Strong as mine,” he confirmed. “Stronger, probably.”

Simon smiled.

“In that case, I plead for mercy,” he answered. “Please, your Grace - I’d prefer to keep my ribs intact, if it’s all the same.”

There was a request in there, however hesitantly made or couched in flattery. Dianda nodded, hearing it for what it was. She was going to get this right - she was determined.

“I’d prefer them intact as well,” she answered. “Until you’re stronger, I’d fear breaking you. And my name is Dianda. You may use it. Your Grace is for people I don’t intend to marry.” 

Simon took a deep breath, and let it out again, and this time when he smiled at Dianda, it reached his eyes.

“I appreciate your concern,” he said , and inclined his head. “The offer of food sounds wonderful. Would it be possible to eat in your rooms?”

Patrick seemed to take his cue, too, from the unspoken relief in Simon’s voice. He stopped pressing and instead moved forward.

“ _Our_ rooms,” he corrected. “That includes you too. This way,” he said, showing Simon down the corridor that led to their chambers. “Dianda and I have been - well, we’ve prepared a bit, you’ll have to tell me if you like it -”

He would, Dianda knew. Patrick had designed the alchemy lab himself and no one could possibly fail to like the soft, warm beds that were the standard for the air breathing Ducal family members. 

Simon stopped. He stared at Patrick.

“You thought I might come?” Simon asked. “I - I thought -”

“We hoped,” Patrick answered, and the fierce joy in his voice made Dianda smile. “We never gave up hoping. We never would have.” 

Dianda placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder, and smiled when he did not flinch away, instead turning to her.

“Welcome home,” she said simply, and if her voice shook a little - if there were happy tears in her eyes - if Simon also looked as though he might cry again and if Patrick looked as though Yule had just come early -

Well. No one was here to judge.

They were home.

********************************************************

Two Months Later:

One day, Simon thought ruefully, he was going to get used to the layout of the palace in Saltmist. One day, but not today, because he was certain he’d passed this particular door ten minutes ago in his search for the library and the adjacent reading room. It was not quite the equal of the Library of the Stars but Dianda had assured him that there were several useful texts there on Undersea sign language and -

And that door was in front of him again. Simon had never possessed much innate sense of direction, growing up as he had done in the Summerlands, but he was reasonably certain that the damn door was following him now. He gave it an exasperated glare.

“Is it not enough that a pair of Firstborn tried to drive me mad that now you’re doing it too?” he demanded of the knowe, and then looked around the hall.

There was no one about, or at least no one that he could see. He glanced up at the ceiling, aware after two months that the Cephali considered it a wonderful vantage point for an ambush, and found no one hanging, no one standing guard merged with the wall. No one, in short, at all. That was a small mercy, given he’d just scolded a door. Then again - at least some of Dianda’s folk had met October - met, and most likely considered just as concerning as any other land fae. Simon sighed. 

They were being patient with him, one and all. He was aware of it, and grateful that the courtesy was being extended not only to him but to August while they both found their feet. Still - he had no wish to appear insane and cause Dianda’s subjects to question the wisdom of her second marriage. He turned to the door again and knocked. If the knowe wanted him here, it likely had its own reason for doing so. At least he recognized the room it belonged to.

“Dianda?” he called. “Was there something you wanted to say?”

“Oh thank Maeve,” Dianda answered from behind the door, relief coloring her voice. “Please, come in and save me from reading this work of fiction Golden Shore calls a trade agreement!”

Simon smiled, and pushed the door open. It swung inward, and he stopped in the doorway, observing the woman he now had the absolute pleasure to call his wife.

Dianda’s scales were breathtaking, he thought not for the first time. He had seen jewels that could never compare to the vibrant colors of her tail and golden sunsets that could not hope to compare to the beauty of her skin, and right now, she looked as if she badly needed either something to punch or a week spent relaxing with a pillow and a sushi chef at her beck and call. She sat surrounded by paperwork, her wooden desk covered in scrolls and reams of paper. There were one or two pages that had drifted to the floor, and Dianda’s tail seemed poised to slap at those in irritation. That she was wearing her fins at this time of the day said much by itself - specifically, that she did not feel up to putting on legs but was also in no position to give up paperwork for the day and relax in her pool either.

“I recall the monarchs of the Golden Shore as being a bit difficult, but not unmanageable,” he offered. He let the door close behind him, and came to sit down next to Dianda in the chair provided for the purpose. “Had Sylvester been a bit less adamant in prohibiting me from acknowledging our human mother, I might have gotten on with them even better.”

“They may be among the more progressive of the land fae, but they also want me to believe that kelpies have taken no less than forty of their people over the past year,” Dianda said, “They’re demanding substantially reduced prices on the goods they import from us in compensation when I know for a fact that kelpies were responsible for perhaps a quarter of that number, with the rest accounted for by the fact that no one born to dry land seems able to recognize a rip tide!” 

She threw her hands up in disgust, one still clutching the offending trade agreement, and Simon reached up and gently took it from her hand. He skimmed it, and then hummed agreement with her assessment. 

“They’re pushing the bounds of proper negotiation,” he agreed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were being influenced by -”

He stopped. Of course. Of _course_ Theron and Chrysanthe were being unreasonable. Of course. Why would they not be, with the Mists just miles north and in the Mists - 

In the Mists, Sylvester, and Luna, and Simon’s past, coming to haunt them all in the form of unfavorable trade deals and the silent, slow withdrawing of Saltmist’s former allies when their neighbors made their feelings on the new consort known. Of _course._

Simon drew back. He let the trade agreement rest on the desk, and he drew a hand over his face. This - 

This had been a beautiful dream while it lasted.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “This is because of me. It must be. I should have known. I should have guessed-” He stood and backed away from Dianda a step. He had done it again. He had brought trouble here - and why not, it followed him everywhere he -

Dianda caught his hand as he stood, and pulled him back down in one swift, firm motion. Her webbed fingers remained closed around his wrist, and when she looked at him it was with understanding, but not agreement.

“If you think that I can’t handle Theron and Chrysanthe then we clearly need to talk about your perception of my capability,” she said mildly, and Simon could feel the color rush to his cheeks and up the back of his neck to the tips of his ears.

“They’re punishing you and yours because of me,” he protested, and Dianda shook her head.

“No,” she disagreed. “They’re punishing me and my duchy because last year, I told them where to put their imposed duty on any goods that didn’t meet their production certification standards, and because I made them feel stupid when I pointed out that we can’t meet their standards since we don’t have any changelings in the Undersea because there are no humans to mate with. They’re trying to do a good thing but they haven’t thought it through, and some year or other they’re going to overstep. That’s all, Simon. Do you believe me?” 

He - 

In the back of his head, Simon supposed, he had always wondered how it was that Patrick - laid back, gentle, loving Patrick, his Pat - could possibly have fallen in love with the least passive of Faerie’s folk. He knew that Patrick loved Dianda, and he knew that she loved him, but he had always marveled at what he viewed as the attraction of opposites. Now, though, looking into Dianda’s eyes - listening to her level, calm voice that would never, ever lie to him -

Now, he thought, he might just understand. He took a deep breath, and then another, and then allowed himself to lean forward.

“You’re certain?” he asked, and Dianda nodded.

“I’ll offer them twice what they’re asking for Annwn wine and they’ll back off from all of this nonsense,” she predicted. “Theron and Chrysanthe are nothing if not predictable.” 

It was all Simon could do to hide the relief that flooded through him at the sentence. He was not causing trouble. This was just business, of a sort he’d seen Sylvester navigate, and even negotiated himself on occasion. There was no need to leave - no need to put himself at the mercy of a hostile ocean and an even more hostile land court following his exodus from Saltmist. He released his breath in a sigh.

“My apologies,” he offered, and Dianda shook her head.

“Even if the threat had been real and aimed at you, I’m not just going to give you up,” she offered. “You’re _my_ husband, and no one is ever going to aim their daggers at you again without paying for it dearly.” 

“I -” Simon started, and stopped. He attempted to start again. There was a frog in his throat. There had to be. It was - that was - 

“You’re far kinder than I deserve,” he finally managed to croak out, and Dianda shook her head.

“No, I’m really not,” she answered, and then grimaced and rolled her shoulders. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of convincing you to add illusory signatures to some of these, is there?” she asked. “They would disappear with the dawn but at least I’d feel better about them for today.”

“Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”

The words were out of Simon’s mouth before he could retract them, and they hung there for a moment. He had not agreed to touch Dianda, really, before this moment. It had been - difficult, for him, to contemplate or to do but now - today - for the promise she had just made - 

“I can’t sign your papers for you unless you’d like to spend tomorrow sorting out which ones still need your attention but I can make the handling of them less of a chore,” he explained, and Dianda leaned forward. She looked to him with eyes full of understanding. 

“You’re sure?” she asked, and he nodded.

“I am,” he answered, and it was not a lie. He had not wanted this when he had first come to live here. He had been wounded, and skittish, frightened of touch from any powerful woman after what he had been through but he did not fear Dianda and he did not, he realized, fear making the offer of touch any longer. He _was_ ready for this small but significant step toward reclaiming himself, he thought, and no, he was not ready to _be_ touched in that manner but that did not mean he could not give comfort and find the experience rewarding. He was ready - oh so very ready - to begin healing. 

“My hands have done enough damage,” he said quietly. “It will be nice for them to do some good.” 

Dianda reached forward and slowly, tentatively, she took his hands in hers. Her thumbs caressed his knuckles and, just as slowly, she raised his hands to her mouth and kissed them gently, just the brush of her lips against his fingers. He shivered at the contact but did not pull away. 

“Help me to the bed?” she asked, and Simon smiled.

“Yes, dear,” he answered, and stood. 

Dianda, he thought again when she had stretched out on the bed and shed her clothing, was beautiful. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, and he reached forward and tucked it up out of the way as carefully as he could, marveling at the small scales that traveled up her spine even in her two-legged form, which she had donned to make this easier. She was sturdy and well-muscled in a way that neither Amy or Oleander had ever been, and he found that he appreciated the difference more than he had ever known he would as he laid his hands on her shoulders and began to rub them. Dianda made a satisfied sound, and Simon felt the corner of his own mouth tilt upward.

“You approve, then?” he asked, and Dianda hummed her appreciation. 

“Did you train in this art while you were among the humans?” she asked, a slight teasing tone in her voice, and Simon chuckled softly. 

“No,” he confessed. “But I did learn a trick or two while I was in hiding from Oleander and our mutual employer. I put my hand to all sorts in that time.” 

“You’ll have to tell us of those years when you’re ready,” she answered, and Simon nodded.

“They weren’t bad years for all that I had exiled myself,” he said. “Highmountain is a lovely place if you can avoid Verona and Kabos.”

Dianda grimaced.

“Well,” she said, “I’m glad to hear you weren’t fond of them. They died, over a year ago now.” 

Simon stopped in his tracks.

“Died?” he asked, and then shook his head. It didn’t matter - he had found them distasteful, as it happened, and it was hardly the topic of conversation for the present moment. “I’ve missed a great deal, it seems,” he said softly.

“We’ll do our best to catch you up,” Dianda replied, and reached out with one hand to touch Simon’s knee where it brushed up against the bed. Simon closed his eyes for a moment in silent gratitude at both promise and gesture, and then reapplied himself to working the knots out of Dianda’s muscles as if by doing so he might offer her the thanks that their blood forbade them. He kneaded gently but firmly, pushing and pulling until with a contented sigh, Dianda pillowed her head against her folded arms in front of her.

“You’re welcome to do this any time you like,” she murmured. “Oh Maeve - yes, right there.”

Simon kneaded the spot she had indicated harder, and Dianda gave a sound that was half moan, half the sort of song that Simon had heard when they had entered Saltmist for the first time. 

“That’s lovely,” Dianda said, and then buried her nose in the pillow. “The bed smells like all of us now,” she reported, voice a bit muffled, and then, abruptly, she raised her head. Simon stopped, uncertain. 

“Is something wrong?” he asked, and she shook her head. She lowered it again and sniffed, again, and then once more, and then twisted until she could look at Simon over one shoulder. 

“You smell… different than I remember,” she said, and then, quite unexpectedly, she reached back with one hand and grasped hold of Simon’s hand. She brought it to her nose, and sniffed again - and Simon abruptly grasped what it was she was smelling. 

“The rot’s gone,” he confirmed. “I first noticed it when October pointed it out to me. You and I hadn’t known each other long before it changed - still, Patrick must have said something before the wedding -” he started, and then ducked his head at the incredulous look that Dianda was giving him. “I assumed you knew,” he murmured, and then Dianda rose off the bed and, without ceremony, she wrapped her arms around him. Her arms were strong - strong enough to hold on while he started to shake a bit, strong enough to hold him together while he fell to pieces for a moment with his head tucked against her shoulder and his hands touching her shoulders as gently as he dared, because for all he was safe now - for all he had no need to hide any longer -

“Is this why you’ve barely used your magic since you arrived here?” she asked, and Simon nodded. He raised his head, trying to blink away tears. 

“It’s an old habit,” he answered. 

“It’s a lovely smell,” she reassured, and then inhaled again with her nose close to his skin. “Smoke,” she murmured, “and - what is the second scent? I don’t recognize it.” 

“Mulled apple cider,” he answered, and she tilted her head. 

“I don’t believe I know what that is,” she said. 

“It’s a dr-” Simon started, and then, abruptly, a thought occurred to him. He looked down at Dianda, and then back up. “Oh,” he said, and Dianda looked down at herself. A flush spread across her skin - all of which was very much on display. 

“Oh,” she echoed. “Yes. My apologies, Simon.” She started to step back - and, to his surprise, Simon found himself shaking his head.

“There’s… no need to apologize, milady,” he said, and found his voice suddenly husky. “None at all.” 

He was still touching her shoulders, he realized. He released her, and stepped back, waiting for her to respond. If she wanted this - if she felt the same stirring of heat deep within - 

He was not certain how he would feel about that. He had not even been touched by Patrick in that manner yet, for all that his husband’s gentle hands were less fraught with trauma than any woman’s, and yet his body, it seemed, was not entirely opposed to the idea any longer. Still - better, he thought, to go slow and cautious, and it seemed that Dianda felt the same. She reached behind her and in a slow, almost reluctant motion, she wrapped the sheet around herself.

“Another day,” she said softly. “When I’m not so exhausted from the Duchess Lorden’s travails and you don’t look at me like I might do considerably worse than biting.” 

“I -” Simon started, and Dianda shook her head. She lifted a hand and gently placed her fingers against his cheek. 

“I can wait,” she promised, and then gave him a suggestive look. “But not forever, Simon.” She kissed his cheek, and then smiled. “You never did tell me what mulled cider is.” 

Simon took a deep breath. It was to be like that, then, was it? He smoothed his hands down the sides of his trousers, resisting the urge to run them through his hair, and then gave Dianda a rueful smile.

“It’s a type of drink,” he answered, and sat down on the bed. Dianda joined him and for a moment they simply sat in silence. It was… nice, Simon thought. 

He looked to Dianda and then, with a smile, he pulled a handful of shadows from the room. With a flourish, he released his spell, and watched her desk become void of papers. The smell of mulled cider and candle smoke filled the air. 

“There,” he said, “gone until morning.” 

Dianda started, and then laughed delightedly. 

“I have a desk again!” she exclaimed. A thoughtful look crossed her face. “Do you think you might do that to Torin if he ever turns up again?” 

Simon grinned.

“For you? Anything,” he answered. 

He was home, Simon thought as Dianda laughed again and then linked her hand with his in a casual, loving, familiar gesture. He was home, and he was safe, and one day - one day quite soon - he was going to be alright again.


End file.
